


For Pain, For Life

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Affection, Comfort Sex, Community: hc_bingo, Community: wrestlingkink, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 13:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13236483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: "It's a bad one, huh?” Roman asks.Dean doesn't answer, except to grunt and hunch further into his hooded sweatshirt, but he doesn't really need to. Seth and Roman both know what Dean-with-a-migraine looks like by now.





	For Pain, For Life

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime during The Shield's initial run together. 
> 
> For the "headache/migraine" square on my card for Round 8 of Hurt/Comfort Bingo and [this prompt](http://wrestlingkink.dreamwidth.org/279.html?thread=48407#cmt48407) at the wrestling kinkmeme.

“It's a bad one, huh?” Roman asks.

Dean doesn't answer, except to grunt and hunch further into his hooded sweatshirt, but he doesn't really need to. Seth and Roman both know what Dean-with-a-migraine looks like by now: surlier and jumpier, jaw clenched and face drawn. Their eyes meet across the elevator, and Roman reaches out to tuck Dean's face into his shoulder, shielding him from the overhead fluorescent lights, while Seth eases the handle of Dean's bag out of his clammy hand.

The elevator spits them out on their floor, quiet at midnight on a weeknight, and Roman keys them into the room. Dean slouches in behind him, and Seth brings up the rear, juggling his extra-large cargo of bags through the door.

It's a well-practiced routine they fall into, both smoother and less-exhilarating than their rhythm in the ring usually is. Dean shuffles to the bed furthest from the door and draws the covers back. Roman moves to the bathroom, and Seth can hear him running the water in the sink cold, even as he goes to the curtains to jerk and arrange the thick fabric so that it lets in as little of the bright light from the parking lot as possible. By the time he's knelt beside the bed, gently pushing Dean's clumsy hands aside and loosening the stubborn knots of his bootlaces, Roman's back with a plastic cup of water and a bottle of Excedrin. Dean takes the cup and holds out a palm for Roman to tip a couple of caplets out into.

“I've still got some of the good stuff from the last time I tweaked my wrist,” Seth offers while he tugs a boot off over Dean's heel. This isn't always part of the script, but every time Seth doesn't bring it up, he finds himself wishing he had.

Dean shakes his head and tosses back the OTC stuff with a swig of water. “You know I don't take that shit anymore.”

He sounds snappish, but Seth knows by now not to take it personally when Dean's in the jaws of a headache. He just peels off Dean's other boot and sets the pair in the space between the bed and the night-table where none of them will trip over them in the dark.

Roman takes the cup and returns to the bathroom, and by the time Dean has burrowed under the covers and settled on his back, he's there with a refill and a cool, wet washcloth, folded into a band and ready to lay over Dean's shadowed eyes.

“Gonna run downstairs and get a bite to eat,” Roman says. “Want us to bring you anything back?”

“Nah,” Dean rasps, “thanks. Sorry.”

Dean has offered to grab his own room on nights like this, so that they don't feel like they have to tiptoe around in the dark. They shoot him down every time. It'd be expensive and unreliable – they've never been able to predict when one of the bad ones will hit – and part of being a team is riding this shit out together, being around to prop each other up.

“Don't worry about it, babe. Just get some rest.”

Seth takes Dean's phone from where he's dropped it on the bedspread and closes Dean's fingers around it. “We'll just be in the lobby. Call if you need anything, ok?”

Dean makes a noncommittal noise, and Seth gives his hand one more squeeze as he rises. Roman settles a hand against the back of his neck and steers him back out the door.

The kitchen in the hotel bar is still serving, so they grab a couple of burgers and a couple of beers and slouch onto a low couch in the corner. Seth's hoping the dim light and his glasses and the hat tugged down over his hair will make any fans who might pass through overlook him. He suspects Roman's still zipped into a long-sleeved hoodie for the same reason.

“Seem like he's had more bad nights than usual lately?” Roman asks after they've spent a few minutes silently getting food into their faces. “Feels like it to me.”

Seth reaches for his phone and swipes through to the calendar app where he's been keeping track. He adds a black mark on the day just ended, and then pulls up the grid that shows the last three months and the clusters of dark days scattered across them, densest over the last couple of weeks. “Good call,” he says, holding the screen up for Roman to see.

Roman winces. “Worse than I thought, even.”

“That was a pay-per-view,” Seth says, pointing at a particular Sunday. “Guess he was more stressed out about defending his belt than he let on.”

“And we've been in Ohio all week,” Roman says somberly.

“Yeah.” Seth frowns and tries to swallow his surge of helplessness with a mouthful of half-warm beer. If Dean can't let himself lean on them over ordinary wrestling business, there's no way he's going to talk to them about why he ends up so strung out whenever they get too close to the place he used to call home.

“He'll come around, when he's ready,” Roman says, with the easy, certain faith in people that life and the business haven't managed to crush out.

“I know," he says, though truthfully he's less sure of it than Roman sounds. "I just wish there was something we could do in the meantime besides _this_.” He gestures, trying to sweep in the whole situation: them skulking around in hotel lobbies or all-night diners while Dean suffers alone back in the room.

“Me, too.”

Roman drapes an arm over the back of the couch, his hand coming to rest on Seth's shoulder, and Seth leans into the warm space that opens up at his side and idly starts googling.

* * *

"If you wanted to suck my dick that bad, all you had to do was ask, Sunshine." Dean leers at him over the rim of his coffee cup, the snide twist of his expression doing nothing to disguise the shadows under his eyes or the strained crease in his forehead.

Maybe Seth should have waited to float this idea past him; it would probably have gone over better on a morning a little further removed from one of the headaches. He's pretty sure none of them slept much last night, too tense about keeping quiet and still in a futile bid not to disturb each other, and he's not at his most strategic this morning. He lets the screen of his phone dim and blank out on the tabletop between them, taking the article he'd pulled up about endorphins and orgasm and migraine with it.

"Don't be an asshole," Roman says firmly. "He just wants to help. We both do."

"Just sayin'," Dean says, slouching away from Roman and catching the window blinds with his elbow, which makes their waitress glance over at the rattle they make against the glass and offer them a frown. "You two don't have to cook up this whole big plan to convince me the pity sex is for my own good. Ain't like I've ever played hard to get."

"Who said anything about pity?" Seth says, keeping his voice down in the futile hope that Dean will follow suit. Another strategic failure: starting this conversation at the Perkins.

"'Oh, you poor baby; let us kiss you better,'" Dean simpers. "How is that not what that sounds like to you?"

"Caring about you isn't the same as pity," Roman jumps back in, "but if you can't tell the difference, then maybe I do feel sorry for you."

Seth wants to kick his shin under the table, a sharp bark of _do you really think that's helpful?_ \- wants to knock their heads together, both of them winding each other up and counting on him to rein them in again - but Roman's already wincing, hearing the absolutely wrong thing to say to Dean only after it's left his mouth.

Dean goes as still as he ever does, and he doesn't look at either of them when he says, "You want to let me out," in a low, careful voice.

Roman looks like he wants to do anything but - like he wants to make Dean stay and hash this out with words or fists or both - but Seth shakes his head, and to his relief, Roman follows his lead and slides out of the booth, clearing the path for Dean to stalk past the bakery case and out the door.

"Shit." Roman plops back onto the bench seat, eyes following Dean's path. "You sure I shouldn't go after him? Or maybe you'd be better?"

"Nah. Give him a minute."

"Guess he can't go anywhere if I've still got the keys," Roman says, picking up his fork to scrape up another bite of hashbrowns.

"Well, I mean, it probably wouldn't be the first time he decided to hitchhike," Seth said, "and I'd be more surprised if he _didn't_ know how to hotwire a car than if he did."

Roman cuts his eyes toward the window, like he actually expects to find Dean in the lot doing something riskier than he'd counted on, and Seth can't help but smile: at Roman's protectiveness, at Dean's unpredictability, at the sudden surge of affection for them both that he knows can't be entirely blamed on his lack of sleep.

He taps the toe of his sneaker against Roman's boot. "But I don't think he will. He wants this to work, too."

* * *

Even though they take the time to wipe out their own plates and box up the ham Dean left unfinished on his and stop at the bakery counter, Dean's still waiting in the parking lot by the time they get back outside, leaning against a post next to the rental with the collar of his coat turned up and a cigarette in his mouth. He pushes himself away from the post and stubs the cigarette out on its concrete base, tucking what's left of it into his pocket while he waits for them to reach him.

"Got your leftovers here," Seth says, reaching out the carryout bag like a peace offering. "And some cinnamon rolls."

Dean nods and holds his hand out to Roman instead. "Keys," he says shortly, curling his fingers in a gesture of _c'mon, hurry it up_.

"It's not that far up the road now," Roman says. "I got it."

"It's my turn. Was my turn last night, before somebody bailed me out." He huffs out a sigh and squares up his shoulders, and Seth feels his own body begin to tighten up, prepping to pull them apart again. "I can pull my own weight. Or, I could if somebody would fork over the fucking keys."

"Who here ever said you can't?" Roman's getting loud, firing back at Dean's frustration with his own, even though they all know - or at least should know; Seth has pointed it out often enough - that that never leads them anywhere good. "Ambrose, nobody's saying you're not tough enough," he goes on, quieter. "We got eyes. Maybe I don't think my stomach can take your driving on top of all the pancakes I just put away."

Dean cocks his head and looks at Roman with narrowed eyes, and Seth catches himself holding his breath while he waits to see what he's going to have to do to keep the peace. Nothing, as it turns out.

Dean finally just says, "Okay," and pats Roman on the stomach and walks a wide circle around the nose of the car to throw himself into shotgun.

Once Roman's put the road back under them, Dean slumps in the seat, pulls a hat low over his eyes, and drowses. Seth catches Roman's eyes in the mirror, returns his smile, and feels the lingering tension start to leech from his spine. He only realizes they've made it to Terre Haute when Dean, subdued but still smirking, jostles him awake in the venue's parking ramp.

* * *

Almost an entire week goes by without a lost match or an attempted mugging backstage, without any of them getting too banged up in the ring, without Dean and Roman scrapping about nothing, and without one of Dean's headaches. So, Seth's heart sinks when he comes out of the shower after the _Smackdown_ taping to find Dean leaning against his locker and rubbing savagely at his temples. The run of good luck was nice while it lasted.

"How bad?"

Dean grimaces - at the pain or at not being able to disguise it, Seth's not sure which - and grumbles, "Like, four?"

Seth mentally rounds up, and winces; Dean's 4 is at least a normal person's 6 or 7. Roman comes in from the shower room, damp hair still loose around his shoulders, and a look of concern on his face. He's overhead and done the conversion, too.

Dean slumps onto a bench and rakes an agitated hand through his hair. "That bright idea you had the other day?" he starts, and slants a glance back up at them through his bangs. "Still want to try it?"

* * *

At first, they fall into their usual routine at the hotel: stowing their bags, dimming the lights, getting the meager painkillers that Dean will take into his system, getting his boots off. But then, instead of tucking Dean in and slipping back out, Seth stays on his knees in front of the bed, hands resting on Dean's spread thighs.

Dean flops back on the bed, hissing a little at the way it must jar his head, and Roman sits down next to him and pets through his hair.

“That too much light?” Roman asks, and in the faint glow from the cracked-open bathroom door, Seth can see Dean shake his head, the movement tipping his face into Roman's palm.

“How do you want to do this?” Seth asks, kneading into taut muscle through Dean's jeans. “I mean, I think we have a common goal, but there's a lot of routes to get there.”

Dean chuckles. “Dunno. Thought you were the man with the plans. Guess they all start here, though.” He reaches down for the heavy silver buckle of his belt.

"Nah, uh-uh," Roman says, and traps Dean's hands with his own, lifting them away from his half-fastened belt to pin them to the mattress above his head. "How's this supposed to help if you're trying to do all the work?"

"So, what, I'm supposed to lie back and think of Cincinnati?"

Roman grins and shakes his head at him. "If that's what gets you there. We ain't here to judge, babe."

"You're supposed to relax and let us take care of everything for a little bit," Seth says, moving deeper into the space between his parted knees to finish unthreading the worn-smooth leather of his belt from the buckle. "Think you can handle that?" he asks, and strokes the tips of his fingers over the narrow strip of skin revealed by the rucked up hem of Dean's faded Flyers t-shirt.

Dean tilts his head to look first at Roman, and then down the long line of his own body at Seth, and smirks. "Do your worst, then."

“Best remember you said that, boy,” Roman says, but his voice is soft, and there's no danger in it, only comfort.

Seth smiles up at them both – feels his chest fill up with everything he loves about Dean and about Roman and about the three of them together – and leans in to undo Dean's fly.

* * *

"How come I'm the only one getting naked?" Dean gripes, and plucks at Seth's t-shirt.

He's right; between them, he and Roman have maneuvered Dean fully into the bed and fully out of his clothes without having done much more than kick off their own shoes. And that has some definite possibilities – Seth stirs a little inside his sweats, considering them all – but on a night that's all about dulling Dean's pain, soothing him into an easy rest, nothing's going to be as good as skin-on-skin.

Roman must have come to the same conclusion, because he says, “That's an easy fix,” and strips his own shirt over his head, then presses closer to Dean to reach over to help relieve Seth of his.

Seth bows his head to kiss Dean, firm, but slower and sweeter than anything Dean will usually hold still for; he really must be feeling wrung out, Seth thinks, to not be agitating for something rougher, faster, more. Instead, he just breathes, heavy and fast, and tips his jaw up to let Seth mouth down the column of his throat.

While he's keeping their boy occupied, Roman discards his jeans, then stretches out against Dean's side to lay hands and kisses on other parts of him while Seth ditches his own tented sweats. They're a superb tag team, as always, even though the way they're working over Dean is much softer than they ever treat the competition.

When Seth slots himself back against Dean's other side, wrapping him up between them, the noise that escapes from Dean's throat can't be called anything but a whimper: high and sharp and almost definitely out of his control.

“Too much?” Roman asks, and reaches up to brush a few sweaty curls back from his forehead. “Bad for your head?”

“You're both too much,” Dean rasps, “but when'd I ever do shit in moderation?” Seth presses another kiss to his neck and feels him swallow hard before he whispers, “Don't stop.”

They don't.

* * *

It doesn't take much longer after that: Seth's lips spit-slicked and stretched wide, Dean's cock heavy on his tongue, his fingers light in his hair; Roman's mouth at Dean's ear, pouring out words Seth can't quite make out, that cause Dean to flush and shiver and squirm; the muscles of Dean's stomach and thighs trembling as he arches his back and spills into Seth's mouth.

Seth files away Dean's responses to being the center of so much careful attention. It's something they can use the next time Dean's headache leaves him drawn and strained; the next time he's restless and unfocused; the next time they want to leave him spent and drowsy.

Roman smiles fondly and kneads at Dean's bum shoulder before he rolls out of bed. Seth hears the faucet running, and the bathroom light extinguishes.

“How do you feel?” he asks, touching gentle fingertips to Dean's temple in the deeper darkness.

He feels Dean shrug against him. “Headache's still there, but s'not any worse.” He nuzzles into the pillow. “Gonna sleep good, I think,” he offers.

“Good.” He shifts to brush a kiss against Dean's forehead.

The bed dips with Roman's weight settling back on the edge of the mattress. "Water?" he offers, and Dean pushes himself up a little to drink and then passes the cup on to Seth.

"More aspirin?" Roman asks.

"Nah," Dean says, and Seth feels him shift uneasily in the shadows, "but would you guys want to, like, stay here? 'Til I crash out?"

"For sure. Been a long day. I'm not moving before morning," he replies, at the same time that Roman says, "Turns out it's cold outside these blankets. Figure you're stuck with me tonight."

They all laugh a little at that, and shift and settle without much more chatter. Dean's not back to 100 percent, still unusually quiet and pliant and docile. Seth tugs the edge of the comforter up over his bare shoulder. Roman drapes an arm over them both, pauses to clasp a warm hand tight but tender against the back of Seth's neck.

Dean is out hard, breathing deep and regular against Seth's shoulder and radiating warmth like a space heater, and Seth is only a few beats away from joining him when Roman speaks up again, in a slow, sleepy rumble. "Sleep tight, little brother. Feels like your idea was a good one, huh?"


End file.
